Three Be the Things
by Nava Kirsch
Summary: Crowley decides that six thousand years of chaste angelic friendship needs to get more interesting. Hell has other ideas.
1. Chapter 1

**Three Be the Things: Part One**

Author: Nava Kirsch

Rating: M for for graphic sex, blaspheming, kinky stuff, you name it. Humour as well.

Summary: Crowley decides that six thousand years of chaste angelic friendship needs to get more interesting. Hell has other ideas. Shameless, shameless A/C slash.

Disclaimer: Mssrs. Pratchett and Gaiman own these characters, natch. No money changin' hands, dearies. Only this ridiculous tale is mine.

Feedback: Yes, please.

_Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, "Where have I gone wrong?" Then a voice says to me, "This is going to take more than one night."_

--- Charles Schultz

"It's a Yugo."

Kaliel stared.

"A _car_. "

Kaliel gulped. "I- I don't know how to drive."

Hastur grinned. "You'll pick it up."

Kaliel had big doubts. True to her demonic nature, she had a healthy fear of modern technology. Like computers, cell phones and photostatic copying machines, the internal combustion engine seemed a Really Bad Idea.

Hastur tossed her the keys. "Mind you, take care of it. Them horseless carriages don't grow on trees, you know."

Kaliel opened the car door and climbed in on the right side. She frowned.

"This doesn't feel right."

Hastur sighed. "That's cos you got an American body. _They_ drive on the right-hand side of the road. So be careful."

She started the engine. She sat.

"D," sighed Hastur. "D is for drive." (1)

Crowley stood in front of the mirror, scowling. He was naked. He held a mostly empty bottle of gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was weaving dangerously.

"Fucking angel," he muttered. "What's the Heavenly Host got that I haven't? Eh?" He cracked up in spite of himself. He frowned at his reflection. He was a knockout, just look at him. All that dark hair, that great bone structure. Nice strong jaw. Good muscles, just enough. Sprinkling of hair on his chest, leading down to--- Well, he knew _that_ was all right. Christ, he couldn't _not _make the effort anymore, not around the angel.

He raised the bottle. "Thanks for the genitalia, angel!" He found the word 'genitalia' particularly hilarious and howled anew, sitting down hard on the floor and hurting his ass. His cigarette was out cold. He snapped his fingers and another appeared. He took a long drag.

_Aziraphale_. He whispered it, tasting the angel's name on his tongue. It was nice. _Nice_. He hated that word, but that's what it was. He used to know that: nice. Memory of a memory and dream of a dream. "Oh, _Jeezus_," he muttered. Angst sucked.

But it _was_ about nice, wasn't it? The angel was too _nice _to understand what Crowley felt. What he wanted.

Crowley snorted. The idiot had had six thousand years to get a clue. Friendship had its limits. He grinned and hiccuped.

Time to use his talents a bit closer to home.

There's a commonly-held belief that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

The Demon Formerly Known As Kaliel, aka Kallie West, newest Junior Assistant to the Assistant to the American Cultural Attache in London, knew it was scarcely paved at all.

The Yugo juddered shakily over the cracked, weedy macadam, somehow managing to find every pothole, bump and fissure. Not that anything could make this trip more miserable, Kallie thought dully.

The car had no air conditioning (2) and the driver's side window didn't open. The upholstery smelled faintly of sour milk, and some malcontent had stuck a purple-haired troll doll dressed like a miniature Scotsman to the dashboard.

There was, however, a cassette player.

Aziraphale stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel from atop the laundry hamper. A good bath was jolly relaxing. He smiled. He didn't understand Crowley's insistence on showers; they were far too fast and intense for the angel. He sighed and rubbed vigorously at his thick blonde hair.

But everything about Crowley was fast and intense, wasn't it? Aziraphale chuckled. Not just the way he drove, either. Crowley _was_ a bit frightening, but of course that went with the territory. A demon's demon, if you like. Aziraphale towelled his chest and back. Glimpses of humour, too, though. Of depth. And pain. Such pain. Poor chap was so terribly sad. The blue in the angel's eyes deepened. Something in him hitched. It just wasn't right, suffering like that. Aziraphale ached to gather the demon into his arms, to comfort him, to rock him and---

Aziraphale shook his head, knowing how that would go over. He also knew that to open himself up to the demon was frankly dangerous. Six thousand years of detente didn't change what they were. There was anger behind Crowley's sadness, and there was cunning. That was the demon's stock-in-trade, after all.

And yet. It was tempting to Aziraphale to think he could somehow really help Crowley. He thought he might do if he honestly tried. He was good that way. He'd known him so long... He frowned. Oh, dear. That was the first step away, wasn't it?

_Vanity_.

Aziraphale sighed and finished drying himself off. He walked into the bedroom and pulled on underwear and socks. He stuck his legs into a pair of brown tweed trousers and shrugged into a rumpled linen shirt and blue pullover. He wiggled his feet into a pair of scuffed brown loafers. He paused for the merest second before the mirror. Goodness, his hair was a fright. No use fretting; it did as it pleased. He sometimes envied Crowley his effortless good grooming.

_Envy_.

Crowley really was a nice looking chap. Aziraphale saw how women and men frankly admired the demon when they were in public.

The angel wished suddenly that people would look at him that way.

That _Crowley_ would look at him that way.

Aziraphale's flesh tingled at the thought, and the sensation brought him up short. He swallowed hard. Where had _that_ come from? That kind of thinking boded no good at all. He started, remembering the Lord knew every thought.

Sore ashamed, the angel dropped to his knees, bowed his head and clasped his hands. His lips moved silently. As he always did, Aziraphale prayed for strength and wisdom and humility.

Tonight he added protection to the list.

Aziraphale rose, shook himself and walked downstairs to the kitchen, feeling oddly disconcerted. He smiled uncertainly. Vapours and shadows. He was being silly. Too many cream cakes at elevenses. He lifted his pullover and frowned at his stomach. He really did need to start watching it.

He grabbed a bottle and made himself a gin and water. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he sipped slowly, still musing. He'd better fix the salad. Dinner would be ready in an hour and he expected Crowley any moment.

On Infernal Interstate 666 North, there drove a single car, and from the car came this noise:

_"I think I love you! So what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that I'm not sure of... a love there is no cure forrrr..."_

_The Partridge Family: Up to Date _may not have been optimum travelling music but Kallie was making the best of it.

She bellowed gamely along with the tape.

Demonic singing leaves much to be desired. It was actually starting to annoy _her_.

She decided to stop singing and start paying attention. Her exit was coming up soon.

Dinner was simple and good: roast chicken, salad and cheese, washed down with three bottles of Tokaji Szamorodni.(3) The two of them ate and chatted and laughed and it might have been a night like any other.

Presently, as it does during even the best conversations, a brief silence fell. Both of their mouths were full of salad.

Outside, a chilly breeze blew up out of nowhere and dark clouds scudded thickly across a bright half moon.

_Mah Nishtana._

_What makes this night different from all other nights?_

For some reason Crowley remembered the Words and smiled coldly. Fit nicely, didn't they?

_Why is this night is different from all other nights, angel?_ He looked hard at Aziraphale, who was cutting up a piece of chicken.

_This night is freedom from your bondage to innocence._

Twisting the Words this way was quite ugly blasphemy, and Crowley savoured it.

The angel looked up suddenly, brow creased. "Did you say something?"

Crowley smiled gently and shook his head, weighing the efficacy of ropes versus handcuffs.

Crowley watched Aziraphale from the armchair the demon currently occupied across the room. The angel was bent over a weathered manuscript, peering with biblical intensity over those ridiculous glasses. A half-empty glass of Claret sat beside him on the table. Aziraphale reached out a hand, never taking his eyes from the manuscript, and sipped absently. Crowley watched the angel's lips on the glass, watched his plump fingers curl around the bowl. Candlelight danced on the wineglass and the angel's spectacles. Crowley stared. Christ, he was beautiful. Like one of those fucking Renaissance paintings.

The angel had suddenly and uncharacteristically insisted on working after dinner. He had in fact asked Crowley to leave.

Crowley knew the angel sensed something, but he wasn't going to blow this. He was tired of waiting. He wanted this tonight.

Crowley had wheedled, gambling that Aziraphale's very human graciousness would overcome his angelic common sense. It did; Aziraphale relented, as long as Crowley kept quiet. _At least_, the angel reasoned, _if he's here, he isn't out making trouble_. And he honestly wasn't sure he _wanted_ Crowley to leave. He didn't know why. It was disturbing.

Aziraphale had felt something shift at dinner. He sensed the demon wanted something from him, something serious and perhaps... wrong? After all this time, was that possible? Whatever it was, Aziraphale was too disturbed to face the demon and too polite to chuck him out.(4) He he was also willing to read the damned manuscript all night if it kept Crowley at a safe distance.

Two hours oozed by.

Crowley gritted his teeth. This was ridiculous. Bloody angel was stalling and getting away with it. Fuck it.

Crowley had been excruciatingly aware of his, er, mortally insistent anatomy for the past several hours. Want jammed every cell. Crowley wanted the angel. He itched to puncture that ripe innocence. Wasn't the silly thing curious? Had to be. Six thousand years in a human body, you'd think--- Crowley's mouth twisted. Didn't matter now anyhow. He'd decided for both of them.

Aziraphale looked up and smiled wanly. "Penny."

Jesus, this was funny, wasn't it? The angel actually thought he was fooling somebody. Thought Crowley didn't know what the angel was playing at. Crowley shrugged, taking a big gulp from his own glass. "Er. Just wondering when you were going to, uh, wrap it up. Thought you might like to _let me bang you silly_ take a bit of a break."

Aziraphale removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The gesture was completely human and utterly compelling. "Crowley, I'm very tired." The tone was dismissive.

"Since when?"

"Sorry?"

"Angels don't get tired."

"Crowley---"

The demon took a deep breath. _Right, _he thought_, here goes_. Crowley put his head in his hands.

"Crowley?"

Crowley groaned, and it was full of pain and longing. His shoulders shook with dry sobs.

"_Crowley?_"

_Wait for it_, the demon thought. He parted his fingers and took a quick peek. Aziraphale was now genuinely alarmed.

_Three. Two. One---_

The angel leaped from his chair. The table rattled and the wineglass toppled, splashing unheeded onto the manuscript.

In an instant Aziraphale was across the room and kneeling at Crowley's feet. He grasped the demon's hands and gently pried them from his face.

"Whatever is the matter, dear?"

Crowley drew a deep, shuddering breath. _Showtime._ "I can't--- keep going like this. I feel so lost, Aziraphale. For millenia. Sick inside. I hate myself, what I am. I didn't mean to fall. You know that. I'm useless... nothing. I don't know what I'd do without you. I've wanted to tell you for so long..."

Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up. He frowned, searching the demon's face. "I say, you're serious, aren't you? What brought this on?"

The demon shook his head slowly. "Always been there. Inside. Hurting. Why burden you? I'm beyond redemption, aren't I?" Crowley looked away, lower lip trembling. _And the Oscar for Best Actor in a Cosmic Farce goes to..._

_Crowley_, the angel thought._ The poor thing really is at sixes and sevens_. Aziraphale was oddly relieved. Heaven knew, he could handle this. Aziraphale smiled tenderly and gently squeezed Crowley's fingers. "Remember that bit in the job description about loving everything?"

Crowley bent his head and touched his forehead to the angel's hands. "You couldn't possibly love me. I'm--- I need---"

"I know," Aziraphale sighed. He rose, pulling Crowley with him, and folded him into his arms. "Be still," he murmured. "There's a good chap." Crowley snuggled his head onto the angel's shoulder and twined his arms round his waist.

Aziraphale understood now why Crowley had wanted to stay. He'd needed help, of course; something only the angel could give him. He should have known. Pure and perfect love. Aziraphale's heart swelled. This was the Lord's work, after all. He was proud of his charge to love unconditionally.

_Pride_.

_Almost_, thought the demon.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said forlornly.

"Hush," Aziraphale whispered. He took Crowley's head between his hands and kissed him chastely on the forehead.

Crowley tightened his arms round the angel's waist and pulled him close against him. They were hip to hip. Crowley locked his eyes with the angel's. With a snake's instinct, he knew he could make the angel drown in them.

Aziraphale gasped softly as he felt Crowley's arousal, but made no move to pull back. Oh, dear. Goodness. He'd never--- Oh, this was--- Aziraphale's blue eyes were huge in his pale face. His arms fell numbly to his sides.

"Crowley...?" It was a plea.

_Gotcha_, Crowley crowed silently, and kissed the angel full on the mouth.

Crowley took his mouth from the angel's. He smiled. Aziraphale's lips formed a perfect "o". His face formed an even more perfect melange of shock and desire. It cracked Crowley up. He kissed the angel again, and this time he used his tongue.

"_Stop_ it!" Aziraphale cried desperately. Seeming to come to himself, the angel tried to break the embrace. His chest was heaving wildly. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale above both elbows and jerked him hard against his chest. Their faces were inches apart.

"Shut up," Crowley said amiably, and kissed him a third time. This one lasted awhile.

When Aziraphale came up for air(5) he was scarlet. "_Crowley_! Let go of me at once or I shall ---"

"What? Smite me? You couldn't smite a fly right now. Look at you."

The angel twisted weakly in Crowley's grip. His legs were limp as noodles. Something else, however, was anything but.

"Gosh, what's---" Crowley thrust his hips forward against the angel's own erection. " ---_That_?"

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to cry. "Crowley. _Please_."

"You really want to help me, angel?"

Aziraphale looked away, clearly terrified. "Yes, but this is hardly--- I mean, you must understand that this isn't what I meant when I said---"

Crowley's head dipped at striking speed. He clamped down on the angel's neck with his teeth and bit. Hard.

Demon bites affect angels in much the same way a stun gun affects a human. Aziraphale gasped and his knees buckled. Crowley quite agreeably caught the angel and scooped him up. Tossing Aziraphale over one shoulder, he trudged to the stairs and started climbing.

The angel was heavy. _Less cake, more sex_, Crowley thought, and took Aziraphale to meet his destiny.

Crowley dumped the angel unceremoniously on the bed. He stood, hands on his hips, and smiled nastily. "You want to fly, angel? Now's your chance. Go on, I won't stop you. Free will and all that."

Aziraphale rolled onto his stomach. He tried to rise and found that his body would not cooperate. The only thing that seemed to be in full working order was his groin. He groaned and collapsed facedown in the pillows.

"Guess that's a no."

Aziraphale heard Crowley open what sounded like a paper bag and rummage around. Before the angel had a chance to wonder, he felt rope wrap twice round his right wrist. Just as quickly his arm was hauled aloft and tied tightly to one of the bedposts. His left arm followed.

"Crowley, what--- ?"

The demon took a pair of scissors from the bag and climbed onto the bed, straddling the angel's hips. Grabbing the hem of Aziraphale's pullover and shirt, he began cutting.

The angel craned his neck. "What are you--- ?"

"Don't move," Crowley murmured. "Wouldn't want to hurt you." He paused thoughtfully. "Yet."

He finished cutting and spread the two halves of Aziraphale's shirt and pullover apart to reveal a smoothly muscled back. The demon ran gentle hands over the exposed skin. His fingers moved upward, finding wingflesh, and pressed.

Aziraphale shuddered, shaking his head.

"C'mon, now, " Crowley coaxed softly, digging his fingers in.

The angel moaned and slowly unfurled his wings.

The demon ran his hands reverently over the soft, warm, white feathers. He wondered if they'd turn any other color after he fucked the angel. He'd see soon enough, wouldn't he? Crowley was all for empirical method.

Crowley grasped the wings where they met Aziraphale's back and pushed them further apart.

The angel cried out.

Crowley sighed. "Stop fighting me."

Aziraphale tapped his rapidly-dwindling physical and spiritual reserves. "Crowley," he croaked. "Please don't do this." He tried once more to rise.

Crowley tightened a fistful of down and sinew at the base of the angel's right wing and twisted it.

Aziraphale sobbed, dropping instantly. The pain was horrible, intense, but on the heels of it came an unbelievablywarm, languid heaviness that washed slowly over him and made his cock throb pleasantly. He gasped.

What---

"You know, angel," Crowley said conversationally. "This is what pride gets you every time." He chuckled. "I ought to know." He tweaked the left wing.

Aziraphale's hips jerked.

"Like that, do you?"

Crowley smiled, and the angel's clothes vanished.

Aziraphale was shaking hard. He had started to sweat.

"You know how long I've wanted you like this, angel? You know what it's been like to sit across that silly table from you year after year, waiting for you to figure out what to do with that marvellous body you have?"

Crowley put his lips to the angel's ear. "You're so pure," he murmured, stroking the base of one wing. "But just a bit too full of yourself. Did you really think you could fix me?" The demon kissed Aziraphale's neck, his shoulder. He wound a hand through the angel's damp hair and jerked his head back.

"Tell me what goes before a fall, Aziraphale."

"Fuck you!" the angel snapped.

Crowley ran a teasing finger from the base of the angel's neck to the small of his back. He tapped gently. "Promise?"

The demon hooked a strong arm round the angel's waist and, still straddling him, jerked him to his knees. The angel's wings drooped, hanging almost furled, close to his body. Crowley grinned. Plenty of room to do what he needed to.

Aziraphale hung limply, held up by ropes and Crowley. His wrists ached dreadfully.

"Grab the headboard," the demon said, almost kindly. "Won't hurt your arms as much." He laughed softly. "Can't vouch for anything else though."

Aziraphale complied, trembling, and suddenly felt something hard and hot and slippery press where Crowley's finger had been a moment before.

The demon swatted Azirahale's buttocks. "Let's put some tarnish on that halo, shall we?" He blinked, and his own clothes disappeared.

Gripping Aziraphale's hips, Crowley drove his cock into the angel.

Aziraphale yelped, shoved forward with the force of Crowley's assault. The pain was galvanising: a burning bolt of sizzling black lightning. It jammed every nerve and synapse and cell and capillary. Aziraphale instinctively twisted madly, trying to escape, but Crowley and the ropes held him fast.

"Just. Give. In." Crowley breathed, thrusting hard, in and out, in and out. He wasn't taking his time; he wasn't making this tender or easy or sweet. Screw love. That was the angel's department, and the angel wasn't running the show tonight.

He was going to teach Aziraphale just how bloody marvellous real debauchery felt. He slammed into the angel like a battering ram, rotating his narrow hips for maximum penetration. Aziraphale was breathing hard now: huge, hitching gasps. Sweat slicked his white skin and coursed down his face, stinging his eyes.

Oh, what was this? The angel was weeping. Deep, hopeless sobs wracked his beautiful frame. It was music to the demon's ears. Crowley had tasted nameless perversions with countless humans and those of his own kind. He reckoned it had been fun. _But_ _this_...! Nothing compared with taking this foolish, trusting angel's shining innocence and tearing it to shreds.

Oh, that fucking angel was tight. And he was still struggling. Felt great.

"God," Aziraphale gasped raggedly. "Please---"

_You little do-gooder_, Crowley thought. _Just try and_ _pray your way out of this_.

"What's wrong, angel?" the demon crooned, grabbing a fistful of blonde hair and yanking the angel's head back. "Has your God forsaken you?"

Crowley let go of the angel's head and dug his fingers hard into the tender flesh of Aziraphale's hips, impaling him again and again. His dark hair fell into his eyes. A thin sheen of sweat covered his taut muscles. Christ, he wasn't going to last much longer.

Aziraphale thought he would go mad. This wasn't happening, it couldn't be--- He couldn't stand this, nobody could... He'd brought this on himself and he'd surely be punished. He cursed himself for folly and for pride; and cried out, agonised, when Crowley leaned over and sank his teeth into the roots of one wing.

It went on forever. Just when Aziraphale knew he could take no more, that he must surely die, something twitched deep in his belly. Warm. Fluttering. Oh. He moaned softly, letting the warmth suffuse him, unable to fight anymore, not wanting to. He relaxed into it, gave himself to it. There was room for Crowley now, and the pain was slowly giving way to sweet, silky friction.

"Crowley!" the angel gasped. His voice broke. It seemed to come from another's lips. "I--- don't stop! Don't st-- "

Crowley laughed. And stopped.

Aziraphale groaned in frustration and pushed himself desperately against Crowley, aching for release.

"You little whore," Crowley said fondly. "Say please."

"Yes, yes, yes" babbled the angel, nearly incoherent. "I'll say anything you want. Pleasepleaseplease...! Do it. F-Fuck me?"

That was too much for the demon. To hear those words, so unfamiliar on Aziraphale's lips, rendered him almost as weak-kneed as the angel. He could hold out no longer.

Crowley stabbed himself into the angel relentlessly, and Aziraphale was heated and filled and Crowley threw back his head and _growled_ as he exploded like a dying star, filling the angel with his seed---

"Ohhh... fuck... yessss!" the angel groaned, utterly lost. His cock jerked and spasmed, spilling hot, thick semen onto the duvet, and he was astonished and ashamed, and the shame was forbidden and delicious.

Aziraphale lay glaring up at Crowley. Before the angel had a chance to recover from the first onslaught, Crowley had snapped his fingers and Aziraphale found himself flat on his back, bound once more to the bed. His wings were still out, crushed painfully beneath him.

Aziraphale thought, _one must at least give the bastard marks for attention to detail._ His cheeks flamed and his blue eyes blazed with innocent outrage. The angel's perfect chest heaved as he yanked uselessly at the ropes. Crowley reached out a deceptively gentle hand and pushed a lock of golden hair from the angel's eyes.

"You!" Aziraphale sputtered. "_Don't_ touch me again! You've done quite enough for one evening. Just because you can manipulate my body doesn't mean---

Crowley reached down and rubbed a thumb over the angel's left nipple. Aziraphale closed his eyes and groaned, his body and mind at war.

"Liked it, didn't you?" Crowley laughed. "You're quite a slut, angel. You bloody begged for it."

"Oh, you vile, wretched _snake_! You took advantage of me. Tricked me. I trusted you. How could you?"

_Christ_, Crowley thought. _Who writes his dialogue, D.W. Griffith?_(6) The demon clapped a rough hand over the angel's mouth. "Shut. Up. Don't you _ever_ stop talking? It's bad enough you're on about people licking toads and the Great Gazoo(7) and Regency snuff boxes at dinner, over drinks, in the car. Must you drag your prattling into this den of iniquity which I have gone to no small trouble to create? I am _trying_ to have sex with you! I want to give you excruciating pleasure the likes of which you've never dreamt. Can't you just shut up and enjoy it?"

Aziraphale was in equal parts abjectly terrified and completely aroused. His brain felt like freshly scrambled eggs.

But his cock was on fire. He shut up.

Crowley bent his head and feathered warm, wet kisses over the angel's chest, stopping every so often to bite a juicy pink nipple. He worked his way down slowly, breathing Aziraphale, tasting him, nipping him, drinking him in. He lingered on the pliant belly, rubbing his cheeks against the flawless, fragrant skin. The angel twisted helplessly, cursing his traitorous flesh.

"This is wrong and you know it," Aziraphale gasped, feeling the last of his threadbare resistance melt like candyfloss.

"Tell that to your prick," Crowley said pleasantly. The demon closed one hand round the angel's cock. He bent his head and took the tip between his lips. He flicked his tongue over the sensitive flesh. Just once.

Aziraphale went still.

_Oh_.

Crowley looked up at the angel, eyebrows raised.

Aziraphale lifted his head, thrusting his hips. Two perfect tears ran slowly down his beautiful, flushed cheeks. He wanted more. He _needed_ more. He loved feeling desperate and helpless and used. He didn't understand why.

God help him.

"Poor angel," Crowley murmured, and took him fully into his mouth. He sucked slowly, deliberately, moving his lips up and down, his teeth grazing the sensitive underside of the angel's swollen cock with each upward motion. Reaching the head, Crowley licked gently, circling his tongue round and round.

Aziraphale thrashed his head to and fro, moaning, straining his hips, wanting _more_.

Crowley was happy to oblige. He took the angel all the way down his throat now, working the shaft, the tip, making a tight, wet vacuum of his gullet and mouth. Up and down he went, growling softly, and the vibration sent wicked little shocks down the length of Aziraphale's prick. Crowley took the angel's scrotum in one hand and tickled it as he worked, never ceasing his wet, slippery efforts.

Aziraphale felt something coil in his guts, boiling like magma.

"God," the angel gasped, blaspheming and loving the way it felt. He knew he was lost, damned and it didn't matter. Not now. Anything for this. He never wanted it to end. "Jesus--- suck it. Don't you _fucking_ stop! Keep _going_, you bastard... yes, that's _it_---"

Crowley, still sucking, raised his head and looked at Aziraphale. The angel's head was thrown back, his full lips parted, sweat-dampened hair plastered across his face, eyes closed. His hands opened and closed spasmodically and his wrists twisted in the ropes that bound them.

"Open your eyes," Crowley whispered around the angel's cock. "Look at me."

Aziraphale forced his eyes open and looked, and it was like looking at his future. Crowley held his gaze--- and sucked.

"M-make me do--- what I did before," the angel pleaded desperately. _Anything. I'll do anything. I'll fall if you want. Anything if you do that to me._

Crowley did.

In spite of (or perhaps because of) The Partridge Family, it was slow going. For one thing, Kallie didn't know how to drive, and she kept drifting off the road. Since there are no shoulders on Infernal Interstate 666 North, she ended up pushing the car out of half a dozen swampy, smelly gullies.

She rattled resolutely along, smelling of algae, afraid to push the Yugo past 30 mph. She thought about work, and this assignment, and wondered if this had been smart.

It had happened on a Tuesday.

She'd been sitting in her cubicle minding her own business. It was easy. As an entry-level transcriptionist all she had to do was show up on time, listen to the interrogation tapes and type. Once a week an imp named Markie would collect her pile of papers and drop them in Hastur's "In" Box.

She'd done this every day, full time, since the end of the War. She knew if she kept at it she'd move up eventually. They'd told her that in no uncertain terms from the beginning. It was the reason she'd taken the plunge in the first place. She was a True Believer. She carried Morningstar's Little Black Book. She practiced the principles of the Revolution. She had ultimate faith in the Program.

"You're bright," Hastur had told her. "Hard worker. Trust me, you'll be management 'fore you know it." Accordingly she'd soldiered on, quietly busting her ass, and avoided open competition. No use getting her wings munched.

Six thousand years later, she was having doubts. She suspected you needed medals on your chest or friends in low places to get the really juicy fruit. And while she'd done her bit for the Rebellion, she hadn't been a soldier.

She'd been a stenographer.

Promotion... yeah. She'd ask Hastur again at her next evaluation. _If it weren't for the benefits package..._ She sighed, swatted the carriage arm on the typewriter, and started pecking out another row.

Fuck. The "L" key was stuck again.

"Oi, Kaliel." Markie poked his popeyed pate around the corner of the cubicle. "Hastur wants to see you." He paused ominously. "In his office."

Kaliel turned around, green eyes narrowing. She didn't like Markie. He'd spent the last six millenia even lower on the Company totem pole than Kaliel and he couldn't be trusted. Actually, nobody trusted anybody, but you got used to watching your back. No big deal.

Until Hastur wanted you in his office.

In Hastur's office sat Hastur, and on the floor by his desk sat a suitcase. Kaliel entered and stood, waiting to be told to sit. You watched yourself with Hastur. Hastur was Executive Management. He could make or break you. Literally.

"Kaliel," said Hastur, and smiled. It did little to improve his natural expression. He gestured to a nearby chair. "Have a seat, luv."

Kaliel sat.

Hastur leaned on his desk, clawed hands resting on two dog-eared overstuffed manila folders.

"So," Hastur said. "How're things?"

Kaliel knew that Hastur knew everything. He knew she knew. And everything, as far as Kaliel knew, was fine.

"Fine, sir," she said.

"Good, good," Hastur grinned. "Still going great guns, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're a good worker. Bloody great worker, you are. First rate."

"Thank you, sir."

There was a long pause. Kaliel found herself staring at the unusually large number of houseplants in her superior's office. Odd, that. On the other hand, the climate was perfect for them.

"So Kaliel." Hastur was speaking again. "You've been at this branch a long time, eh?"

"Since the War, sir." Hastur knew that. What was he getting at?

Hastur opened the top drawer of his desk and extracted a large cigar. He chomped off the tip and spat it across the room. He snapped his fingers. Fire jumped from the digits. He lit the cigar and puffed contentedly. "Mind if I smoke?"

Kaliel knew Hastur knew she wasn't allowed to mind.

"No, sir."

Hastur frowned. "Right. I'll get to the point. It has come to our attention that one of our, er, remote operatives may have put himself in a compromising position."

This meant little to Kaliel. Like many Lower Functionaries, she worked on a strictly Need-to-Know basis. She knew next to nothing about Remote Operations. It meant Topside, she knew that. She also knew from seeing the occasional newscast what Topside was like. Too much noise, too many people. Too much weird technology. Too much bloody unpredictable behaviour. It was that free will thing. Made the humans a bit daft, in her opinion. She'd not been out of Hell since the War. And she barely remembered Heaven. And that was fine with her.

"Sir?"

"We have come to the conclusion that we must orchestrate an, er, _Intervention_."

"Sir?"

"Right. Simply put, we wish to send someone Topside to prevent any further, ah, fraternising."

Kaliel sat, puzzled, wondering what the point of this was.

There was another lengthy pause.

"It's Crawly, Kaliel."

"Crawly, sir?" The name rang a dim and distant bell.

Hastur leaned over the desk, leering. "Original Sin, Kaliel. Surely you remember. One of our best jobs. Beginner's luck, they called it."

Kaliel frowned. Sure, she knew about that. It had been all over the news. Something about a snake...

"Serpent, sir? In the tree?" She ventured, hoping she was going in the right direction.

Hastur sighed. Bit thick, this one. "Yeah. Crawly. Snake. Tree. Apple. Good. Evil. Adam. Eve. Cast out of the Garden. Right?"

She remembered that! She beamed and nodded vigourously. "Right, sir."

"There was," Hastur continued, "A guardian of the Gates. Eastern one. Pansy by the name of Aziraphale."

Kaliel nodded earnestly. She'd no idea who Hastur was talking about.

"You've no idea who I'm talking about, have you?" Hastur said.

"No, sir."

_Christ_, thought Hastur desperately. _We could be here all day._

He decided to expedite things.

"Crawly's been Topside since the Fall of Man. Remote Operative, right? Mucked up Armageddon. Bit of a prat, but got Special Dispensation to carry on. Lovely, right? As you like, I says. No use questioning the Boss, eh?"

Hastur took another long drag on his cigar and puffed five perfect smoke rings.

"Then there's the pansy. Aziraphale. Angel. Bit of a queer. Remote operative for _Their_ side. He and Crawly... they work together... but not really."

Kaliel looked confused. Clear as mud, this.

Hastur sighed again. "I know. But there it is. Been fine for awhile, but now Crawly's gone and gotten himself a bit of a thing for the angel. Wants more than just a working relationship. If you know what I mean." He winked.

Kaliel blinked. "You mean...?"

Hastur laughed mirthlessly. "Yeh. Randy as a goat, is our Crawly. So far the angel hasn't, er, capitulated, but we think it's only a matter of time. This could be bloody awful, right? I mean, it's one thing to have an Agreement with the Enemy. _Sleeping_ with the Enemy--- can't have it. Who in Go-- who knows what that daft serpent would tell the angel in the throes of passion? What he'd agree to _do_? Trust me, Kaliel, lust makes people _do_ things. Makes 'em more vulnerable than torture. We invented both; I should know. In all events, we simply can't turn a blind eye. Not this time."

Kaliel processed this information. Right. She still didn't understand what it had to do with her.

Hastur patted the folders. "This is Crawly's dossier. His and the angel's. This should bring you up to date."

"Up to date, sir?"

Hastur grinned and gestured to the suitcase on the floor. "You're going Topside, Kaliel. You're the chosen one. You're going to stop Crawly. Any way you can."

Kaliel started violently, nearly falling from the chair. Surely she hadn't heard that. Surely---

"_What?_" she gasped, momentarily throwing bureaucratic courtesy to the four winds.

Hastur nodded, grinning a terrible grin. "Yes. You. Who better, says I? You're hard-working, loyal. Dedicated. Dedicated enough to distract Crawly from his--- " Hastur's mouth twisted as if the word tasted bad. " --- _Angel_." He paused and laughed. "We've requisitioned a nice body, too. First rate. Best we've got. _American_. Very nice. Part of your cover. We'll brief you."

"But-- " Kaliel babbled. "But--- I've never been Topside! Not ever! Really, I'm not the one you want! I don't know the first thing--- !"

"Oh, you'll be fine," Hastur chuckled. "We've all the faith in the world in you. No chance of _you_ defecting, I reckon. And mind you," he said, leaning across the desk and putting a conspiratorial finger beside his nose. "Do your bit, and there's a promotion in it for you. How does a corner office with a window sound, Senior Adjutant Kaliel? Eh?"

Kaliel chewed her lower lip. It sounded good. After all this time...

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Guess you had to give to get.

But Topside...!

She gritted her teeth. She could do it. She knew she could. She hoped she could.

She knew she didn't really have a choice.

**Footnotes**

**(1) Yugos were never produced with automatic transmissions. However, Hell's engineers had installed an automatic transmission in Kaliel's car, knowing full well that a demon cannot drive a standard shift automobile. (Crowley excepted.)**

**(2) Kaliel would not have noticed the heat were she still in demonic form. As a human, however, the heat was very nearly unbearable.**

**(3) This same dinner was served to another "condemned" fellow: Jonathan Harker, on his first night in Castle Dracula. My little joke.**

**(4) This sort of suicidal _politesse_ is what comes of spending six thousand years as an Englishman.**

**(5) We all know these two don't have to breathe, but by now they've both forgotten that.**

**(6) D.W. Griffith was a famous American silent film director. He was responsible for, among other things, the film version of the "You must pay the rent!" Evil Landlord archetype as portrayed in the film _Way Down East_. Crowley's comment refers to Aziraphale's over-the-top "Damsel In Distress" whinging.**

**(7) This is an exchange that will happen later in this story as a Dreaded Flashback Scene. The Great Gazoo was a little green spaceman that inexplicably made cameo appearances on the "The Flintstones". He granted wishes and was voiced by the wonderful Harvey Korman.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author: Nava Kirsch**

**Rating: M for sex, blaspheming, kinky stuff. Humour plus new and improved action.**

**Summary: Epiphany for Aziraphale. Hell's best and brightest arrives Topside. The Fight In the Bookshop. Wackiness all round. A/C Slasheroo.**

**Disclaimer: Mssrs. Pratchett and Gaiman own these characters. I don't. No actual angels or demons were harmed in the writing of this fic. No money involved. Only this psuedo-picaresque rambling is mine.**

**Feedback: Greatly appreciated.**

_**Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY...**_

**--- Drew Carey**

**000**

Aziraphale was still bound to the bed.

Crowley lay on his side, propped up on one arm next to the angel. He was smoking lazily, post-coitally serene.

He poked the angel hard in the ribs.

"_Hey_."

Oh, _God._

Aziraphale was weeping again. The angel wriggled uncomfortably as he furled his wings while lying on top of them, trying to make himself simply disappear. He couldn't, of course.

Crowley sighed.

"Christ, all I did was fuck you. And, er, blow you. And--- "

More sobbing.

"Stop it!" Crowley hissed. "Your flesh is weak. Whatever. Welcome to the rest of your life."

Aziraphale whipped his head round. His eyes were blue fire. "Not _my_ life, you filthy, twisted--- This is _your_ life. _My_ life is--- "

Crowley laughed. "Worthy? Decent? Pure?" He peered into the angel's face, smiling. "Bloody little hypocrite. The genie's out of the bottle, sweetheart. Not so bad, is it? I didn't hear many complaints."

Crowley rolled onto his back, throwing up his arms in a wicked parody of the angel's helpless passion. " 'Oh! Oh! Don't stop! Don't you fucking stop! Oh, _Crowley_...!' " He dissolved into hysterical giggles.

"God, I hate you," Aziraphale ground out.

Crowley grinned and sat up, crossing his legs Indian-style. "Well done," he chuckled. "Points for my side." He exhaled a thick plume of blue smoke.

Aziraphale glowered. "I do wish you wouldn't smoke in here."

Crowley flexed muscular arms, stretching. He paused, regarding the angel. "Mmm. Sssooo, what have we so far? Vanity? Envy? Pride? Lust? Gosh, angel, you're going great guns. How did you end up _not_ falling?"

The angel's face paled and stilled; he stared at everything and nothing. His heart felt like it had been squeezed dry and his mind felt like it had been through the spin cycle. He felt thickly damaged. And yet the thought of _that... _

_...damage. _

Of just how wicked he'd _been_.

Aziraphale drew a sharp breath...

_...warmth again. Curling slyly in his belly, nudging insistently... _

...and shifted his hips.

Crowley watched the angel, smiling.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and swallowed hard and whimpered as his cock responded. He felt lost.

It felt perfect.

"What have you _done_ to me?" the angel groaned, opening enormous, tear-filled eyes and fixing them on the demon. He snuffled.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale solemnly. Aziraphale stared back, breathing hard. His nose was quite clogged now from crying.

A long minute passed.

Presently Aziraphale stopped crying. He licked his lips.

Looked away.

Looked down.

"Er, Crowley--- " the angel started.

Crowley watched, fascinated, as a hot, hectic blush spread slowly from Aziraphale's neck to his hairline. He looked like a cartoon thermometer.

"Hmm?"

"Could you--- I mean, that is, do you think--- ?"

"Yessss?" Crowley's lips twitched.

Aziraphale squirmed. He looked pained. It was rather different when he wasn't caught off guard. When he wasn't thrashing weakly, half-paralysed with demon bite, twisting about in the throes of passion. This, right now, demanded a choice. Crowley wasn't forcing him now.

_It isn't fair,_ the angel thought angrily._ He knew what would happen. Like in the Garden, with her. Once you know... it can't be undone. _

Aziraphale relaxed as his internal conflict collapsed. He sighed tremulously. He couldn't lie about this, not even to himself.

_He knew_ _you wanted it. _

He looked guardedly at Crowley, who had been watching this new intelligence transform the angel's face. Aziraphale had wanted merely sex; Crowley had given him self-knowledge.

Of course, the sex was a nice bonus.

Aziraphale's cock ached.

"I--- I-- Er. Oh, dear. How shall I put this--- ?"

Crowley watched the angel, gratified. This really was what the demon did best. Crowley sniffed. The scent of shattered innocence was going straight to his prick. He shook himself.He had to get _some_ work done tonight.

With no small effort Crowley unfolded his legs and swung them over the side of the bed. "Well," he drawled, "It's been lovely, really it has, but I gotta go. Tempting and wiling and all that, you know."

He rose and blinked and he was dressed.

Aziraphale looked at him incredulously. "Are you going to leave me like _this_?"His hips wouldn't stop moving.

The demon straightened his jacket and walked to the bedroom door. Pausing, he turned.

"You can take care of yourself, angel," he said, grinning.

He snapped his fingers and the angel's bonds vanished. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

**000**

The man stood at the bottom of the escalator, and he was holding a sign. It said, "West".

_That's me_, Kallie thought, and went forth.

There were two men actually, both tall and wide-shouldered and crew-cut. One had red hair, the other, dark. They wore simple summer suits and expensive sunglasses. They smelled of soap and aftershave and toothpaste.

The sandy-haired one extended a big hand. "Howd'youdoMissWest?"

Kallie shook. "Howd'youdo." Her words and inflection surprised her. They matched the man's nearly identically. _This is what Americans sound like_, she thought. _They speak through their noses and they don't use punctuation_.

"I'm Agent Thatcher," he said.(1) "This is Agent Sawyer."(2) Agent Sawyer nodded curtly. "Howd'youdo."

Agent Thatcher gestured to her valise. "We took the liberty of picking up your luggage. Just one piece?"

Kallie nodded. She shrugged and smiled. "I, uh, travel light."

Agent Thatcher nodded, grabbing the bag. "Okay. Agent Finn(3) is picking up your car. He'll follow us to the hotel."

They exited. A black Lincoln Cadillac was waiting.

Agent Thatcher opened the door and handed Kallie inside. "Sorry about the hotel. We'll find you a residence as soon as possible."

He walked around and put Kallie's valise in the trunk. Heclimbed into the back seat beside her. Agent Sawyer was already seated next to the driver.

Thatcher smiled as the car pulled away. "You'll like the Ritz, Miss West."

**000**

Kallie had made it to the airport on time. Barely.

Pandaemonium International wasn't sophisticated by any means, but everything ran on time.

She'd sputtered to a stop in the drop-off lane at the British Airways entrance, grabbed her valise from the passenger seat and vaulted out of the car. Tossing her keys to a uniformed imp, she dashed through the door, ran up the central escalator and tore down the concourse.

She was sorry she couldn't have left the car at the kerb for good.

To Kallie's dismay, the Yugo was coming with her. Hastur'd wanted to be sure she had reliable transportation on assignment.(4) They'd be taking care of the whole thing. Kallie wondered how you flew a car Topside. Maybe it was like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and flew itself. She frowned. Thoughts like that made her head hurt.

That was the thing about official business, right? _They_ took care of the details. Kallie's only concern was the Job At Hand.

She threaded obediently through countless security checkpoints, showing stamped documents at every turn. You couldn't be too careful at Hell's Portals.

Her ticket said she'd come from Washington, D.C. _Close enough_, Kallie thought, shoving her boarding pass across the desk at a weary-looking gate attendant.

She thumped down the accordioned walkway. Kallie was the sole passenger from this point of departure. She stepped aboard, smiling agreeably at the beaming English captain and flight attendants who would have no memory of this particular stopover.

**000**

Aziraphale stubbed out another cigarette. He'd been systematically sucking down vodka and tobacco smoke for the past seven days. He didn't know whether he was trying to scour his insides raw or asphyxiate himself. He reckoned either would do.

He smiled bitterly. This really was so much more like Crowley, this. Not like himself at all.

Of course, he didn't feel like himself.

The angel heaved a deep, teary sigh and grabbed the vodka bottle, upending it. It was empty. He hurled it across the room.

"... Annnd, there's the pitch! It's a line drive to third base! _End_ of the second inning! It's Angels nothing--- " Crowley ducked, laughing, and the bottle crashed on the wall directly above his head.

He paused in the doorway of Aziraphale's back room, brushing glass from his shoulders.

"Get out of here," Aziraphale said.

Crowley crossed his arms and leaned on the jamb. "Aw, don't be like that. I actually came round to see how you were. Y'know, I _do_ care." The demon laughed again.

"Go," Aziraphale said.

Crowley walked over and sat down at the table facing the angel. "Not until you come to your senses. You've been dead plastered for a week. Bad even for you. Have you any idea how much tempting I'm getting away with?"

The angel waved his hand and another bottle appeared on the table. He opened it and took a healthy gulp.

Crowley eyed Aziraphale. "Christ, look at you. When was the last time you had a bath?"

"Couldn't tell you," the angel said, blue eyes flat with anger. "But I could tell you in excruciatingly minute detail how many times, where and in what way, I've brought myself off for the past week."

Crowley stared.

Aziraphale was just warming up. "Oh, yes! You left me feeling like--- _that._ _Left_ me!" He pointed wildly to his groin. "I couldn't _move_ without feeling--- There was _no relief_, Crowley! And _you_--- you--- never told me I could--- How to--- "

The demon grinned. "You figured it out, apparently." He smiled sweetly. "Care to give a little demonstration?"

Aziraphale's head snapped up. Now his halo was out, and it burned white atomic fire. He snarled and lunged across the table, aiming for Crowley. Crowley, who was not drunk, moved aside to let the angel pass.

Aziraphale hauled himself unsteadily to his feet using the back of Crowley's chair. Latching quite unexpectedly onto the demon's collar, he yanked.

"Now, just a---"

Crowley landed against a bookshelf at the far end of the shop, buried under most of the complete works of Zane Grey.(5)

Crowley sat up, still stunned, and saw Aziraphale bearing down on him like drunken judgment in a green pullover. The demon jumped to his feet, throwing up his hands.

"Look, mate, I don't think--- "

Aziraphale stopped halfway and stood, weaving. He was livid. "That's _right_. You _don't_. Think. Unless it's about yourself." He advanced, pushing up his sleeves.

"Aziraphale--- " Crowley backed up, hitting the shelf again. "Aziraphale. Buddy. You don't want to do this."

"The hell I don't," growled the angel, and punched Crowley in the stomach.

**000**

This might be the time to describe what happened next as a Cosmic Pantomime; a Metaphorical Struggle betwixt Good and Evil, Right and Wrong, Light and Dark.

It might be, except it wasn't.

**000**

The bookshop was getting the worst of it.

The angel and the demon were holding their own.

**000**

Aziraphale landed a solid hit to Crowley's left jaw.

The angel jumped back, grinning maniacally. The collar of his pullover was torn and his spectacles hung from one ear. His halo was blinking like a defective fluorescent light. "That felt _really_ good, Crowley! You know why? Because you _deserve_ it! You heinous reptile. I'm smiting with the Right Hand of God, Crowley! You hear me? The ri---"

Shaking his head to clear it, Crowley regrouped and countered with a right jab to Aziraphale's ribs.

The angel, who'd not had presence of mind to sober up, tottered precariously.

Crowley leaned forward, hands on his knees. He was winded and bleeding from one side of his mouth. He straightened with difficulty and wiped his lips. "Had enough?"

The angel swore and lunged and threw a haymaker, missing by a mile.

_Right_, Crowley thought. He lowered his head and charged.

**000**

Kallie sat on the bed and looked at the room.

Even the name inspired awe. _Ritz. _It just---

It sounded so--- she groped for a word. Her American brain supplied _classy_.

_Classy_. Yeah. Nice. Pretty. Clean.

Kallie just wanted to sit and look.

**000**

Crowley had Aziraphale pinned facedown on the floor of the bookshop, one arm hard behind his back.

"Say 'Uncle'!"

There was a pause while both breathed heavily.

"Why?" Aziraphale said finally. His voice was muffled by the rug.

"Just say it! I got you. I win. So say it. That's what you say when the other person wins. Er, in a fight."

"That's silly."

"It's traditional. If you don't say it I won't let you up."

"It's absurd."

Crowley held on.

"If I _must_," Aziraphale muttered. His arm was falling asleep. "_Uncle_. Satisfied?"

Crowley let go and jumped to his feet.

Aziraphale followed, picking rug fibres from his cheek. He touched the skin around his right eye and winced; it was an unlovely black and blue blossom. A nasty cut below the eyebrow oozed blood.

"Nice shiner," Crowley opined.

The angel glared and took a step toward him.

Crowley backed up, waving his hands. He was laughing.

Aziraphale frowned at Crowley, who was already healing. The angel poked his own battered eye. "Huh. Can't fix it. Too drunk, I s'pose."

"Sober up?"

Aziraphale grimaced, concentrating. He sighed. "Erm." He hiccuped loudly and waited. "Nope. Too much vodka." He shook his head and started for the stairs. "Plasters and iodine for now."

Crowley followed him upstairs into the bathroom. He perched on the laundry bin as the angel busied himself. "You know, this wouldn't have happened if you'd been reasonable."

Aziraphale applied iodine and scowled into the mirror. "Crowley. It is theoretically impossible for me to be indefinitely unforgiving. Much as I'd like to test the theory, what I'd like more is to have another drink. And much as I'd like to chuck you out on your manipulative, serpentine arse, I'd really rather not drink alone."

**000**

Blue, peach, pink, yellow. Calm colours. Sweet.

Kallie sighed and fell backwards onto the Louis XVI style bed and stretched, simply _ingesting_ the luxury. She closed her eyes and breathed. Everything smelled like goddamn gardenias. This must be some expense account. Her eyes travelled around the room, taking in the artwork, the moulding, the flowers. Even the lampshades were awesome. There was a basket of fruit and sweets on the table by the door, for crying out loud.

Her eyes fell upon a large mahogany cabinet in the far corner of the room. Curious, she got up, walked over and opened it.

Inside was a television.

Kallie was essentially American after all.She did what every American does upon entering a hotel room.

She turned the television on.

**000**

According to the clock on the wall in Aziraphale's bedroom it was just past midnight. Crowley regarded it blearily and realised that he and the angel had been drinking for five hours and seventeen minutes.

"S'better up here," Crowley hiccuped, squinting critically at the bottle in one fist. "Better seats." He swung his legs over the arm of his chair and settled in sideways.

"No mess anyhow," sighed the angel. "Take an age to clean that up, down there."

"If you'd just let me--- "

Aziraphale shook his head. "Nonono. None of your diabucolic--- diabubonic--- none of your demonly magic here. Do it myself. The old fashioned way." He yawned. "Tomorrow."

Crowley smiled. The angel never objected to diabolically-conjured alcohol.

**000**

Kallie surfed channels for an hour. She settled on a rerun of _The Brady Bunch_. Marcia, much to Jan's delight, had just gotten her nose smashed by a rogue football on date night. Kallie was rooting for Jan. She didn't much like Marcia either.

_"Now, Marcia, it's not that bad," _Mrs. Brady was saying._ "You're still---"_

KALIEL, Carole Brady said, smiling.

Kallie jumped and lost her balance, sliding off of the bed onto the floor.

YES, KALIEL, IT IS WE.

Kallie crawled to the television and pressed her nose to the screen. Had that really come from--- ?

STOP THAT! screamed Mrs. Brady.

"Sorry," said Kallie, scrabbling away and sitting down. "You, uh, startled me."

GET USED TO IT.

Kallie rather doubted she would.

YOU MUST BEGIN OPERATIONS IMMEDIATELY. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE.(6) YOU WILL GO DOWNSTAIRS AND RETRIEVE YOUR AUTOMOBILE FROM THE GARAGE. WE WILL DIRECT YOU TO THE ANGEL'S SHOP. WE BELIEVE THEY ARE THERE TONIGHT. YOU WILL WATCH THEM. GET PHOTOGRAPHS IF ANYTHING GOOD HAPPENS.

Kallie hesitated. She kind of didn't want to leave the room just yet. It was so nice. And she'd only just gotten there.

"Um. Right now, Lord?" She blurted. "I mean, they might still be at dinner or some---"

NOW! TONIGHT. WE DID NOT SEND YOU UP THERE ON HOLIDAY, KALIEL. GET GOING.

AND KALIEL.

"Yes, Lord?"

REMEMBER TO DRIVE ON THE LEFT.

**000**

"In Heaven there is no _beeerrr_! That's why we drink it _heeerrre_! And when we're gone from _heeerrre_-- "

"Crowley! _Please_!" Azirphale looked like he'd bitten into pasty and found half a rat. "Stop. Just stop."

"Don't like my singing?"

The angel burped. "I'll never be that drunk."

**000**

She eased toward the skylight by agonizing inches. The roof was deeply pitched and Kallie didn't know why she hadn't fallen off ten minutes ago. The six-pound messenger bag across her back wasn't helping. Goddamn slippery slate and it _better_ not rain. It had rained all the way from the Ritz to Soho. Fucking rain. That had been the _good_ part of the ride. She snorted. Soggy chilly island full of crazy-ass people who drove on the wrong side of the road and smelled like wet wool and brussels sprouts.(7)

She wished she were back at the hotel. She felt guilty for thinking that. She was on an important assignment, after all. They had great faith in her. This could be very big.

At the hotel there had been a lovely box of chocolate truffles wrapped in gold foilon the bed pillows. Kallie hadn't even had time to try them. They'd smelt quite good. She tried to put it out of her mind but couldn't.

A foot to go. She was sweating like a stevedore and cursing like a sailor. Angry sparks danced in her blonde hair. She hated heights.

And now she'd reached the skylight. Good, okay, there we go. She took a breath and looked down and saw them, sitting in two shabby, overstuffed armchairs. The floor was a sea of empty booze bottles.

She saw the dark one first. So that was Crawly. She vaguely remembered him. It had been a long time.

She scrutinized him. Life Topside certainly agreed with Crawly. Dark hair, killer bone structure. Hot body. Filthy, dirty perfection, and wasn't he just the nicest piece of work? Well, she thought with a touch of pride, they _all_ were, when you got right down to it.

But Crawly... he had something else. It radiated from him in sweet, warm waves and it was not at all unpleasant. Yeah, she remembered now. His warmth drifted slowly aloft and coiled lazily in her belly, tickling as it settled in.

She blinked and exhaled sharply, feeling her grip on the slate falter.

Man. You could go far with that kind of talent. No wonder Eve had---

And suddenly there was Something Else and it hit her like a locomotive hits an egg; and she, unfortunately, was the egg. Through a haze of pain Kallie understood that the locomotive in question sat across the table from Crawly, and he wore a green sweater and a lovely smile. _Aziraphale_. Whatever the demon had, the angel had it threefold, and it was clean and sweet and cool and the sheer force of it nearly knocked Kallie off the roof for the second time in five minutes.

_Radiance._

It made her want to puke and it made her bones ache and it really, really pissed her off. She gagged, grimacing, and twisted her body as if to expel the taint.

She squinted and the pain subsided to dull malaise. And now she really _looked_ at the angel.

Oh, man.

She'd forgotten what the good guys looked like. She squirmed, but something surged in her chest and she resisted the urge to look away. Her green eyes were bottomless teacups and they were filled with the angel. She wanted to look until she couldn't.

She stared at the frank, open face, framed by tousled blonde hair. Perfect, upturned nose, soft pink mouth. Rosy cheeks ---_very_ rosy. Kallie wondered, grinning, just how much booze the angel had slammed. She squinted harder. She really wanted to see his eyes. Whoa, he was wearing glasses.(8) Reading glasses, for crying out loud, but there was no way you could hide the wild blue yonder in those first-rate orbs.

Hmm. The angel was built well for sure, but he looked like he'd been hitting the cream cakes a little too hard. Tough to see much more under the baggy sweater and rumpled tweed pants. Tweed? _Dude._ She giggled and glanced at his feet, and the argyle socks and cutie-pie loafers cracked her up some more. Ten bucks said this guy went to bed every night with a hot water bottle and a copy of _Winnie the Pooh_.

Kallie raised an eyebrow and sniffed. She could smell him, and he smelled like cupcakes and fresh linen and starch. He smelled like incorruptible innocence(9) and a steely strength that promised some serious ass-kicking in the name of the Lord.

She breathed him in, but it was like poking a sore inside that had never really healed.

Suddenly Kallie wished it didn't hurt. It wasn't fair. You might not miss what you never had, but she'd had it once too. She gnawed a thumbnail, frowning.

Well, she'd also had a nice go on the Celestial payroll, and it lacked a lot in the incentive department. Heaven was long on protocol and short on promotion. She'd been overworked and under-appreciated. When they'd chosen sides, she'd jumped at the chance for a Brave New World. At least Below there was room for advancement.

Ogling the Eagle Scout in the green sweater was just another perk.

The angel put his elbows on his thighs, leaned over and cupped his chin in both hands. A lock of honey-hued hair flopped into his eyes and he pushed it away with a hand like poetry.

_Oh, baby._

The warmth in her belly was oozing to other areas, and the effort was rapidly becoming effortless. The still-sizzling sparks in Kallie's hair spread, covering her body. They jittered madly, showering stinging red needles on the slate. She snarled softly. Juicy little angel. She wanted him, bad.

Her mind wandered, wrapped in a demon's fantasy.

She'd wound him first and dim that radiance a bit. Her teeth itched to bite the angel's wings til they bled. String him up and pluck out some feathers, maybe. Scratch her sharp nails down that soft belly.

Her palms were sweating.

Kallie's right hand lost its grip and she slipped a swift and alarming twelve inches south. Clawing her way back up, she took a shuddering breath and tried to concentrate.

Incorruptible, huh. Kallie wondered just how much. She sighed. In her case, not much at all. She'd been a wash-out as an angel and she'd taken her lumps. She'd taken plenty as a demon too. But that was different; they rewarded loyalty Down There.

_(Didn't they?)_

Kallie mused on. Her eyes never left the angel, who had uncorked yet another bottle. He sure could soak up the sauce, and wasn't that interesting?

Downright edifying.

Kallie grinned.

Nobody's armor was seamless.

**000**

"Did you know," said Aziraphale, "That some cats swim?"

_Here we go_, thought Crowley.

"Turkish Vans. Um. From Turkey. They swim out to the fishermen when they come in each day, you see, and the fishermen toss them--- " He paused, tilting the last of his bottle toward what suddenly looked like two glasses in his hand. He aimed gamely for both. Wine splashed merrily on his trousers.

"Fish?" Crowley's voice was weary.

Aziraphale beamed. It hurt Crowley's eyes. "Yes, fish! Exactly. For the cats."

_It's like picking a scab_, Crowley thought. _Shouldn't do it; can't help myself. _

"So what's in it for the fishermen?"

"Eh?"

"The fishermen. What do they get? The cats get a free meal. Seems to me the fishermen are gettin' stiffed."

"Certainly not!"

"Why?"

" 'M thinking."

"You're stalling."

"Nonono. Look, ever seen a cat swim?"

Crowley slugged bourbon. If he ever had it would be because he'd tossed it in the drink himself. He shrugged.

"Exactly. 'S a small miracle, right? Not every cat can do that, y'see. _That's_ what the fishermen get. A lovely miraculous kitty water ballet. A spontaneous act of --- hic --- feline grace. And since Grace is its own rewar--- "

"That's virtue. Virtue is its own reward. And it's not spontaneous if the cats do it every day. It's behaviour modification. I still think the fishermen are getting the shaft."

Aziraphale glowered and put his glass on a table that existed only in his mind.

**000**

Damn, that angel was plastered.

Kallie was getting a cramp in her left foot.

She inched along until her torso was over the skylight, and lowered herself on the glass. The angel was _still_ talking, bent forward in his chair, elbow on one knee and chin in his hand. The other grubby mitt clutched a wine bottlefor dear sweet life.

His eyes were closed now, a lollipop smile on his pretty mouth. Crawly got up and staggered around to stand behind the Boy Scout's chair. He removed thebottle from the angel's hand and placed it on the floor. Crawly put his hands lightly on the angel's shoulders, pulling him slowly back against the chair.

Crawly dipped his head and buried his lips in the angel's hair.

_Well_, now.

Kallie pushed further out onto the glass, lying flat. She could feel Crawly's baking heat and it smelled like gin and woodsmoke. Her belly fluttered anew as she watched the two of them.

_Go on_, she thought. _Do it_. She stared, galvanised, completely unhidden.

**000**

Had Crowley and Aziraphale looked up at that moment, they would have seen a tall, slender blonde girl in pink flowered capri pants and a lime green polo shirt stuck to the skylight like a giant, panting moth.

But they didn't.

**000**

Kallie watched breathlessly as Crawly curled his fingers around the angel's shoulders. The angel started violently, turning around. He shook his head, grabbing Crawly's hands in an effort to remove them. He rose unsteadily, halfway to his feet. Crawly smiled and shoved him back into the chair. He ruffled the blonde hair, keeping one hand on the angel's shoulder. He trailed his fingers from the angel's hair to one fair cheek, turning the blonde head forward. The angel sat staring straight ahead, a marble statue in a wine-stained green pullover. Crawly began to stroke the angel's cheek, continuing to knead the sweatered shoulder.

Kallie wiggled the rest of her body onto the window. Now only her feet touched the roof.

Crawly moved his hand from the angel's cheek to his mouth, shoving a thumb between those awesome lips. The angel moaned.

_Yesyesyes_! They were really gonna do it. Kallie's sooty heart rejoiced, and her thoughts turned to office decor.(10) Maybe she'd get some plants.

Now for some pic-- _Camera! _Where--- ? _Shitfuckdamn_. Those two were more distracting than she'd bargained for. Cursing her brand-new hormones, Kallie shot out her left arm and dragged the messenger bag, inside of which lay an enormous Kodak Brownie camera, to the edge of the skylight. She turned over andsat up right in the middle of the window. Shegrabbed the bag and tore madly at the zipper.

It stuck.

**000**

The angel bowed his head, leaning into Crowley's hand. The demon grinned.

_Come on, sweetheart_, Crowley urged silently. If the angel thought Crowley was done with him yet he was grievously mistaken. Taking Aziraphale's body had been tasty. Getting into his head would be Heaven.

He slid his hand to the angel's shoulderblade and pushed where he knew it was still tender. _Let me in. Just once._ _I already had your ass. Give me your mind._

Aziraphale shook his head, groaning. He couldn't. Not that.

Crowley tapped Aziraphale's temple. "I wanna see in there," he murmured. He paused. "Don't you love me?" Hoo, boy, that was a classic.

Aziraphale tensed, determined this time not to buckle. Having the demon wreck his body had been bad enough. The fact that he couldn't seem to say no both disturbed and alarmed him.

But his mind... _No_.

Aziraphale could feel the demon pushing hard against his brain. His defences were far down. He raised his head and the demon felt a weak flash.

Whoo-ee. Decidedly unimpressive. The demon sighed. "That your best shot, angel?" Crowley slid his hands under the angel's sweater and dug his fingers hard into soft flesh, nipping Aziraphale's neck for good measure. "You're so fucking easy."

Aziraphale shuddered.

Crowley held his breath.

**000**

Directly above them, Kallie was losing a battle of Brobdignagian proportions with the zipper. She pulled. It resisted. She had been doing this for fifteen minutes. She couldn't will the bag open; the angel and the demon would sense it in a second. It was the hard way or no way. "Fucker!" She hissed. Her face glowed like molten iron.

"_Fuckerfuckerfuckerfucker_!" She gave a final enraged tug. There was a faint _tink _as the zipper pull broke free and flew out into the night.

Demons are very strong. Kallie had wrenched mightily. The resulting force when the zipper pull finally let go was impressive. Kallie shot backwards onto the window. Really, really hard.

**000**

The glass in the skylight of Aziraphale's shop was very old.

Kallie West stood five feet, nine-and-a-half inches tall and weighed one hundred and sixteen pounds. While her height-to-weight ratio put her squarely in the realm of Not Fat, one hundred and sixteen pounds is, after all, one hundred and sixteen pounds.

It was more than the glass could take.

**000**

There was a mighty crash.

**Footnotes**

**(1) Get it?**

**(2) How about now?**

**(3) Okay. (If you haven't got it by now, which I'm sure you have. You all are pretty smart.) Becky Thatcher, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn. The names of three quintessentially American literary characters for three quintessentially American Secret Service Men.**

**(4) Hastur knows you can't pull off a serious stealth operation worth its salt in a taxi.**

**(5) Zane Grey was famous for his exciting novels of the Old West. He wrote more than 85 books. Most of that would be enough to hurt even a demon.**

**(6) Wouldn't be a wacky action/adventure/romance without that line, now would it?**

**(7) Specifically regarding brussels sprouts. From _Good Omens_. Madame Tracy'sVery English Room Fragrance, used to great effectin calming skittish customers.**

**(8) Crowley had lost his own sunglasses during the fight and had not bothered to conjure another pair.**

**(9) Kallie was not the most perceptive of demons.**

**(10) Hastur, as you may remember, had promised Kallie a corner office with a window if she successfully completed her assignment. Note that no mention was made of what would happen if Kallie failed. **


End file.
